It is time to leave. Wrap up two years of my life and leave behind a city I almost made home. But the thought strikes 'does anyone make Mumbai home'? Or are they all waiting to make it home. It is a city of eternal wait. People are always waiting. Waiting in line. For the train tickets, At the bus stop, to enter the stadium, for a job interview, to reach their stop, to get off at the right station, for their dream job, for the right home, for the perfect boy and on they wait.
Bombay has always been the city of struggle. You never arrive. You constantly strive. Strive for that better car, strive to send more money home, strive to become a star. It is this struggle that makes up the essence of Bombay. And it is this constant striving that never allows the city to grieve, to wallow in self pity. A bomb last, a bloody riot, deadly floods. The city cannot stop. The rich have to party, the poor need to clean up.
As this dawns upon me I wait too. I wait to pack up two years of my life in small suitcases. Brown and Black. I wait to wheel them off the city and into another.